


There and Back Again

by Lynx22281



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:24:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynx22281/pseuds/Lynx22281
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of another Christmas present given to Dean by Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There and Back Again

**Christmas 1995**

“Merry Christmas, Dean!” 

“Oof!” Dean was rudely awakened by 90 pounds of gangly Sam landing on top of him and pinning him under the thin covers of his hard motel bed. “Geeze, Sammy. You’re getting’ too heavy to do that.” 

Even the fact that Dad was God-knows-where couldn’t diminish Sam’s excitement on Christmas morning. He wiggled like an over eager Great Dane puppy and tugged at Dean’s arm. “C’mon. Get up!” 

Dean groaned and rolled over, nearly knocking Sam over onto the floor between their beds, but the kid jumped off just in time. He looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand before pulling the lumpy pillow over his head. “It’s 5:30 in the morning and its…” he paused to think “Sunday.” 

Sure it was Christmas, but it was first and foremost, in Dean’s mind, Sunday. Sundays without Dad meant sleeping in until at least noon and no training so they could get caught up on shopping, homework, and laundry for the next week. Dean coveted his Sunday routine. It was the only day of the week he could be lazy, if only for just a few hours. 

He heard Sam huff and the springs of the other bed rustle as his little brother sat down. Dean was pretty sure he was getting the beginnings of a teenaged bitchface thrown at him. Over the last year or so, Sam had added this new face to his box of expressions. Sam would silently glare and purse his lips together in a totally unmanly way. The new expression was quickly taking the top spot away from the puppy-dog-eyes look that Sam had been sporting since he was two years old. Dean was starting to miss puppy-dog eyes. While he could never say no to the look, at least it was cute. Sometimes he even benefited from it when Sam turned it on a waitress or a shopkeeper and they got free dessert or candy. Bitchface just irritated him. 

When Sam realized he was being ignored, he stomped off to the kitchenette to loudly pour himself a bowl of cereal. Dean didn’t understand the big deal about Christmas. Sure he always made sure to get gifts for Sam and never complained when Dad left him behind to stay with Sam because at least Dad had enough of a heart to not want his youngest son to be by himself for Christmas. But, in Dean’s mind, the holiday only created extra stress which led to more possessions and hauntings, not to mention the annual increase in craziness at the winter solstice. Plus, Christmas was so glitzed up and expensive that it seemed to have lost its original purpose, not that Dean was devout person or anything. 

But, the little voice in the back of his head reminded him that Christmas was important to Sam. And if it was important to Sam, then he could at least pretend it was important to him too. With a sigh, he pulled the pillow away from his head and threw it with perfect aim at Sam’s shaggy head before stumbling off to the bathroom. 

“Jerk!” Sam called after him. Dean heard the pillow land with a thump back on the bed. 

“Bitch,” he replied with a grin as he shut the door behind him. Unlike most motels, the closet of this room was located in the bathroom. Dean rifled through his duffle bag. Several years ago, he’d come across the huge bag at a thrift store. The canvas bag was lined with plastic inside. Dean had cut a slit in the lining create a hidden space between the inner and outer parts that was perfect for hiding things, like skin mags and presents. He pulled out a small narrow box that had been wrapped in the funny pages – at least the comics had been holiday themed for the last few weeks. Before leaving the bathroom, he grabbed an overly full, plain white shopping bag with its handles tied shut. 

Back out in the room, Sam had moved the Charlie Brown-esque motel tree from the top of the dresser to the middle of the dinette table. Under the pitiful little silver tinsel tree were two small packages wrapped in notebook paper that had been covered with hand drawn snowmen. Dean tossed the plastic bag at Sam before setting the box in his hand next to the packages on the table. 

Sam untied the plastic bag and rifled through the usual gift of new undershirts and socks “from Dad” – it was Dad’s money that bought the necessities, so Dad got credit for the lame gift. There was a bag of Skittles and a new toothbrush at the bottom of the bag. He set the bag aside before pushing the two notebook paper wrapped gifts in Dean’s direction. His hazel eyes were bright and happy, the sullen almost-teenager gone for the time being. 

Dean nudged his gift towards Sam. “Open yours, first.” 

Sam didn’t need any more encouragement to tear into the box. His eyes got even bigger when he pulled out a watch almost like the one Dean had been wearing for the past two years. “Wow. This…this is a really nice watch.” 

Dean could already see the gears turning in his younger brother’s head. It was a very nice, very expensive watch. But Dean had saved up his own money from odd jobs and hustling pool to buy Sam something that would be useful and last a long time, not to mention something cool for him to show off at school. Gently, he clapped his little brother on the shoulder and smiled. “A man needs a dependable time piece, Sammy.” 

“Thanks, Dean!” Sam returned the smile as he strapped the watch to his left wrist. Then, he pushed at the other two gifts still left on the table. “Merry Christmas!” 

Dean opened the first present – a Terry’s milk chocolate orange, his favorite holiday candy. The chocolate wouldn’t last ten minutes after it was whacked open. He smiled up at Sam. The younger boy suddenly looked nervous as he eyed the second present. Dean peeled back the notebook paper and uncovered an old green, hard covered book. He turned it over to look at the title on the spine – _The Hobbit_. His nerdy little brother had bought him a book. But when he opened the cover and read the inscription in Sam’s neat print on the title page, his smile softened. 

_Merry Christmas, Dean. Ramble on. –Sam_

Sam immediately launched into an explanation. “We had to read it for English last year and it was really good and I thought you’d like it and I found a copy at that second-hand bookstore back in Yuma and…” 

Dean reached out and ruffled Sam’s hair gently. He remembered Sam telling him about the references to J.R.R. Tolkien in several Led Zeppelin songs. Apparently the members of one of his favorite bands were big geeks like his brother. Still smiling, he grabbed Sam by the scruff of his neck pulling him in for a hug. “Thanks, Sam. Merry Christmas.” 

**July 2002**

In a seedy motel’s parking lot in Grand Island, Nebraska, Dean rummaged around the seemingly unorganized weapons cache in the Impala’s trunk. He had carelessly tossed his rosary in the trunk after making the last batch of holy water a week ago and needed to refill before heading back out on the road. “Oh, c’mon. It’s gotta be here somewhere.” 

He shoved aside an empty gallon Gatorade jug with a permanent marker drawn cross on the side of it, a cigar box of fake IDs and credit cards, a machete, and a shotgun. His hand stopped on a green hardbound book wedged between a box of flares and a box of shotgun shells, and he instantly forgot about the rosary. Dean opened the book to the title page, rubbing his thumb over the inscription written in blue ink. 

_Merry Christmas, Dean. Ramble on. –Sam_

The book brought back memories of reading aloud to Sam when he caught some weird flu the summer before he started high school. Sam had claimed that the noise from the TV made his head hurt and pleaded for Dean to read him a story. Dean had offered to read articles from _Car and Driver_ , but Sam asked him to read _The Hobbit_ instead. For a week, Dean read out loud for several hours every day, only stopping to rest his voice when he needed to make a run to the drug store or Sam dozed off. That had been the last summer of Sam’s childhood. By the next summer, he had turned in a surly, argumentative teenager and didn’t want to have much to do with either his Dad or his older brother. 

Dean’s hand shook slightly and a breath caught in his chest as loneliness crashed down around him. Sam had run off to California barely two weeks ago, and Dad left three days later to hunt down a wood spirit that was abducting hikers in Vermont. He’d been fine for the past ten days, keeping his thoughts occupied by hunting down a ghost haunting the local courthouse. Hunting alone hadn’t bothered him. Dad had sent him off on his own a few times over the last year and a half. But, he had always had Sam to come home to at the end of the hunt, even if home was just some crappy motel room or a shabby rented studio apartment. 

Now, Dean was by himself in the middle of the country while his brother and father sought to get as far away from each other as possible without crossing any oceans or international borders. For the first time in his life, he felt truly alone, completely abandoned. His nostrils flared in frustration and bitter heartache. He had given all of himself to Dad and Sam and they had left him. Angrily, he snapped the book closed and threw it back in the trunk, at the moment not caring that it landed half open, with the cover bent back at a funny angle. 

He grabbed the empty Gatorade bottle and the rosary – which was, of course, hanging from the hook on the lid like it always was – and stomped back into his empty motel room to turn Nebraska water into holy water. 

**March 2013**

Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose between his eyes and yawned before looking up to the clock hanging on the wall in the bunker’s war room. The only light in the room was the pale blue glow of the laptop. He could just make out the hands on the clock – 3:42. His hand moved from his face to the back of his neck massaging out a kink from being bent over the computer for the last four hours as he cataloged some of the Men of Letters’ research. 

The bunker was mostly quiet. Only the barely noticeable noise of the ventilation system kept the place from being totally silent. Sam hated silence ever since he got back from Hell. He needed the reassuring whir of machines – his laptop, a hotel mini-fridge, the air conditioner, an empty station on the radio – to ground himself in reality even though Lucifer was no longer taking up space in his subconscious. 

Slowly he stood up from the wooden chair at the war room table. His joints popped and snapped as he stretched his arms over his head. The motion caused a weird mix of pain and relief that left him groaning like an old man. He grabbed the empty glass sitting next to his laptop and walked over to the sink to refill it with tap water. Sam avoided looking at himself in the dimly lit mirror, still not trusting that he wouldn’t Lucifer standing over his shoulder despite having been devil-free for over a year and half. 

He moved barefooted through the bunker – there were no size 14 slippers lying around in any of the closets or drawers – turning off lamps as he passed through the library into the corridor where the sleeping quarters and bathrooms were located. Dean’s light was still on. 

It was weird to sleep in separate rooms when they were together, but it was nice at the same time. They had their own space. They could go through their personal routines without disturbing each other. But, they could get to each other in the blink of an eye. Neither slept with his door closed. 

Sam stopped in Dean’s doorway and was just about to tell him to go to sleep, when he noticed that his brother was already passed out. Dean was lying on his side, facing the door. His right arm was tucked under his pillow and his left was bent in front of him. His left hand rested in the middle of an opened book. The right side of his face was smushed into his pillow. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses was perched awkwardly on Dean’s nose. The angle threatened to bend the thin metal frames. Dean would bitch if he had to go out and get new glasses – it had been a nightmare trying to get him to go to the eye doctor in the first place. 

One corner of Sam’s mouth quirked up. He crossed over to the bed setting his cup on the night stand before reaching out to carefully pull the glasses off Dean’s face and slide the book out from under his brother’s hand. The motion caused Dean to stir. He whined and rolled over on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. 

“Time is it?” Dean slurred sleepily. 

“Almost 4am.” Sam said as he straightened up and moved Dean’s bookmark to the opened page. When he closed the book, the title on the spine caught his eye – _The Hobbit_. He opened the book back to the title page. His own handwriting stared back at him. 

_Merry Christmas, Dean. Ramble on. –Sam_

Sam smiled to himself as he closed the book again and placed it on the nightstand with Dean’s glasses. He figured the book had been forgotten in some two-bit motel room long ago. It wasn’t the most memorable present he had ever given his older brother – he had witnessed that particular present being discarded in a motel trashcan several years ago. Seeing that Dean had held onto the book for all these years filled some of the void caused by the absence of the amulet. 

“Night, S’mmy,” Dean said, his words muffled by the pillow. 

“Night, Dean,” Sam replied as he turned off the lamp by Dean’s bed. He picked up his glass of water and headed across the hallway to his room. 

Back in his room, stretched out on his back on his bed, he looked up at the ceiling and sang quietly to himself. _~Leaves are falling all around, it's time I was on my way. Thanks to you, I'm much obliged for such a pleasant stay.~_

In a hole in the ground, there lived two Winchesters. Not a dark hole full of pain and devoid of hope, nor yet a fiery hole with nothing in it but the company of two feuding, fallen archangels: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.


End file.
